


Ineffably Reincarnated

by tequilamockinbird



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cute, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 05:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20810171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tequilamockinbird/pseuds/tequilamockinbird
Summary: Heaven and Hell kill Aziraphale and Crowley a few months after the body swap, but luckily She reincarnates them as next-door neighbors in the USA Bible Belt. Shenanigans ensue.AKA the one with the other, extremely eventual, female Antichrist.CW: Physical and emotional parental abuseControversially miniseries-compliant with references to the book and fandom in general.Rated MATURE so I can curse freely (although I will still redact hate speech) and get a little dark and/or heated once they grow up.





	Ineffably Reincarnated

OUTSIDE OF TIME

I saw the possibility that Crowley and Aziraphale would die strengthen in 2019. I knew I would never let them cease to exist the way Heaven and Hell wished—even if that meant rebuilding them from scratch.

One of the hardest things to understand about Me is how deep my power runs. I exist outside of time. Now, without turning on the lights or revealing too much of my hand, I will explain a little bit of the game I play.

You see, there is no singular Ineffable Plan. I have so many Ineffable plans, you might as well consider them infinite. I can see all the branches time could possibly ever take on, and the only things limiting me from knowing which one will become reality are 1) the free will of my creations and 2) my ability to limit myself from peeking at what they will choose.

I limit myself because knowing ahead of time would defeat the point. And it is far more fun to be surprised.

I decided to rebuild them from scratch. Now, where in time to drop them? Allowing them to meet their angelic and demonic incarnations might have given too much away, so as long as I kept the two manifestations of each of them in separate parts of the world, I could choose anywhen I wanted. If they existed at the same time, their human incarnations would have affinities for things they couldn’t quite remember, and these affinities would build alongside the memories of the angelic and demonic incarnations. Simple enough.

Then again, most of those possibilities resulted with their souls already remade, enlivened, and acquired long before their other incarnations died. Where was the fun in that?

Perhaps it would have made the most sense to reincarnate them more traditionally, in 2019, on the very day they perished.

But as I scrolled through the possibilities, I found their joy would most likely maximize if they were born a bit earlier. And they might even come in handy in certain ways.

They would be born in 2003.

OCTOBER 2003, ALMOST SIXTEEN YEARS BEFORE ARMAGEDDON

They were born.

Aziraphale’s parents misread their sonogram. They had a name picked out. First name Ashley for a close family friend. Middle name Zeta for their favorite actress. And of course, the last name, Fell.

When he was born with a different effort than expected, Ashley became Ash. Ash Zeta Fell. They would somewhat regret naming him Ash Fell, but they didn’t realize this until too late.

A few months after Ash was born, his father grew tired of the domesticity of the situation. He cheated on his mother and she kicked him out. They had never been married, so the separation was seamless.

***

Crowley was brought into a family of that last name, and his mother named him Anthony Jay. She would somewhat regret putting two types of birds in his name, but they didn’t realize that until too late.

After a month of sleepless nights, Anthony’s mother tracked down his father and shoved the filled baby carrier at him alongside some harsh words. She would refuse to see either of them for years to come.

JULY 2008, ONE MONTH AFTER CROWLEY HANDED OVER THE ANTICHRIST

Ash and his mother moved into a house.

Ash had been pitching fit after fit about missing their old apartment. When he asked for a balloon in the grocery store, his mother sighed and obliged, fearing another instance of public embarrassment. He picked one out that looked like the moon. He was carrying it into the house by its little plastic anchor when he heard a squeal from the neighboring yard. 

“It’s the moon, Daddy, it’s the moon!”

He turned to see a boy his own age barreling toward him, loose red curls swinging almost down to his shoulders. The boy seized Ash around the middle in an awkward hug, pinning his arms to his sides. “We’re gonna be friends!” he cheered in Ash’s ear.

Before the stunned four-year-old could react, he was jerked forward. The boy’s father had grabbed his son’s shoulder and pulled him backward, forcing him to clumsily let Ash go. Ash stumbled and dropped the balloon anchor, but thankfully it fell to the ground like it was supposed to.

“I’m so sorry,” the boy’s father growled. “This boy is as obnoxious as they come.”

Ash’s mother shrugged. “I guess it’s sort of cute.”

“I’m Ben Crowley, and this little shit here is Anthony.”

“Dora Fell,” she said. “My little shit is Ash.”

“Is it your birthday?” Anthony asked Ash, who shook his head.

“He’s just rotten,” Ash’s mother said. “That’s quite some hair he’s got. Did he get it from his mother?”

“Yeah, she’s not in the picture anymore.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I know the single parent life. It can be rough.”

“Oh, you too?”

Anthony broke out of his father’s grip to grab the string of Ash’s balloon and pull it down to face level. “So cool! So white! I wanna… I wanna draw on it! With markers!”

Ash lit up at that idea and turned to his mom.

Her puzzled gaze went from Anthony to his father. “Creative one, isn’t he?”

In Anthony’s kitchen, he held the balloon down on the table while Ash drew a big heart between the craters it and colored it in carefully with pink.

In the next room, their parents were evaluating the spoon and fork potential in each other.

Anthony flipped the balloon over. Ash held it still while Anthony had a turn. His favorite doodle lately had been a tree.

When it was done, Ash gripped the plastic anchor and watched it bob toward the ceiling. He thrust the anchor at Anthony. “Yours.”

Anthony was baffled. “Really?”

Ash nodded and pressed the anchor into Anthony’s hand.

Anthony beamed.

Ash and Anthony got a little over two months of playing in each other’s houses and yards. They scribbled all over each other’s arms and legs in marker. They played in sprinklers until Ash got hurt and burst into tears. They taught each other songs they had learned in their respective Kindergartens. Ash went to a Lutheran church Kindergarten and taught Anthony a song about unicorns missing out on being on Noah’s ark. Anthony adored it.

They went trick-or-treating together on Halloween. Anthony was a firefighter and Ash was a policeman. They had a ball trying to outrun their parents and gather as much candy as they could.

***

A few days after Halloween, when Anthony asked if he could go see Ash and got a sharp “No,” he wanted to know why. Ben had told him to shut up and said something demeaning about Dora and women in general. Anthony started to argue, to demand to still be able to play with Ash, and his dad struck him across the face. Anthony launched into a crying fit, which only made his father angrier. It was one of the worst beatings yet.

***

The next day, Ash asked to play with Anthony. His mother went back to her book and mumbled something about “That’s not going to be possible anymore.”

Ash frowned. “Why?”

“His dad and I aren’t friends anymore.”

Ash also felt a fit coming on. “But why?”

She sighed. “Because I said so. Now go to your room and leave me alone.”

He went to his room, picked up a book about unicorns, looked at the pictures, and tried not to cry.

He didn’t talk to his mom again that day. He played by himself, eventually forgetting his tears and making up stories about fights between his pirate and cowboy dolls. When he wore out, he went to bed.

He had a nightmare about someone trying to cut his head off and woke sharply in complete blackness. For a moment he panicked—had his head really been cut off? Was that why he couldn’t see? But he heard the clock ticking in the hall and felt the sheets around him and realized he was in his own bed. His mom had come in and turned on the light—and she hadn’t bothered with the nightlight.

He hated the dark. He hated that he couldn’t see who might be coming to cut his head off. Adrenaline seared his veins. He needed the nightlight on. But how could he cross the room to find it when anything could be lurking in the blackness? Literally anything. Dinosaurs. Ghosts. The Devil he’d learned about at school—the biggest evil in the world.

He wished really, really hard for the nightlight to just turn on by itself.

When it did, he wasn’t really surprised. He was just relieved and went back to sleep. By morning, he had forgotten all about it.

FALL 2008, 11 YEARS BEFORE ARMAGEDDON

They were in the same first grade class. After encountering each other in driveways and getting sharply pulled apart for several months, they had eventually given up.

Ben and Anthony walked into the classroom to find Ash and his mother already there. The parents exchanged glares and said nothing. Ash grinned at Anthony, who looked away quickly.

Ash tried not to cry. There went his only chance of already having a friend. He was terrified of trying to make friends. Anthony had made it effortless, but he knew from preschool that he was no good at it.

Within a week, Anthony had introduced his classmates to every curse word in the English language (including the British ones), loudly asked his teacher what an orgasm was, and talked one of his classmates into ingesting apple-scented hand sanitizer. She drank the whole bottle and vomited all over the playground. 

Meanwhile, Ash spent all his free time flipping through picture books, trying to figure out the words. He would watch Anthony’s antics and giggle sometimes, but he couldn’t work up the nerve to actually jump into the fun.

In the end, he gave up trying to work up courage and didn’t speak to anyone at all, really.

***

Almost two weeks into class, Anthony decided to talk to Ash. It wasn’t like his dad would find out. He sat beside him against the wall and looked at the book open on his lap.

“Hi, Ash.”

Ash looked up and made a squeaky sound that might have been “Hi.”

“Can you actually read that?”

Ash shrugged. “Some words.”

“Cool,” Anthony said. “What’s it about?”

“Whales.”

“I like whales. Did you know they have big brains?”

Ash nodded and closed the book. “Why did you make Evelyn drink hand sanitizer?”

The question was curious, not judgmental. It was the most words in a row Anthony had heard Ash say since school had started.

“I wanted to know if it tasted good. She said it did, but she drank it all, so I never got to try. And she barfed, so now I don’t wanna.”

Ash giggled. “You wanted to know if it tasted good?”

“It might!” Anthony said. “Crayons and glue taste good, you know. Erasers don’t. And markers don’t. And—”

Ash dissolved into a fit of giggles.

Anthony’s face heated. “You don’t taste things?”

Ash shook his head, still lost in hiccupping hysterics.

“Try it!” Anthony said. He stood up, faced the wall, stuck his tongue all the way out, and licked it. “Not awful, but not good. Try!”

Ash put the book aside and moved to the nearest blank space on the wall, between cutouts of animals. He hesitated but stuck his tongue out and poked it.

Immediately he stepped back and started giggling.

Proud, and wanting to know how far he could push the quiet boy, Anthony stuck his tongue out again. He bent down and licked a long, wandering stripe up the wall.

The teacher’s sharp voice made Ash jump. “Mr. Crowley, please don’t lick the walls! I can’t believe I just had to say that… Ash, what happened? Your pants?”

Anthony looked at Ash and saw the mess, but Ash’s eyes were shut in laughter. He was barely breathing between giggles.

Anthony wanted to burst into laughter too, but even as a six-year-old, he knew better than to laugh at someone wetting their pants in class. He ran out into the hall and around the corner—where his laughter exploded.

It was the proudest moment of his young life.

***

When he went home that evening, he told his father how he’d made Ash laugh hard enough to pee himself. Instead of being proud, his father groaned. “Ugh, his bitch of a mother is gonna kill us. Go to your room. And don’t lick walls, for Christ’s sake.”

Sure enough, not an hour later, someone pounded on the door. Anthony started to run to answer it, but his father was already in the doorway, enduring the screeching scolding of Ash’s mother. “I had to leave work and bring him fresh clothes! Teach your boy basic human behavior, maybe, like _not licking the fucking walls!_”

He shrank behind the corner. His dad wasn’t going to be happy about this.

When his dad came back inside, Anthony was still peeking around the corner toward the door. His dad seized him by the arm. “You. Are not. To play. With that child. Ever. Do you hear me?”

Anthony swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Ash had apparently gotten a similar lecture, because he refused to even look at Anthony for weeks. Or had Anthony actually humiliated him that badly? Maybe not—Ash still laughed at the jokes he made to the whole class. He just didn’t want anything to have to do with Anthony one-on-one.

Anthony still had other friends. Adam, Tyler, and Peter kept him company on the playground and fell eagerly into his shenanigans.

He wanted to make Ash laugh like that again, but he thought of his father’s fists and steered clear.

CHRISTMAS EVE, 2008, 10.5 YEARS BEFORE ARMAGEDDON

Ash missed preschool. The stories had been better. The same ones over and over again, but better. More interesting and serious. One of the reasons he looked forward to Christmas—besides the presents, Santa, candy, and promise of hot chocolate—was getting to go to church.

His mom always picked out his best outfits and dressed him up, complete with a little bowtie. They met his aunt and uncle there.

He sat in a chair and sang the songs happily, but his favorite part was the stories. The words of the pastor seemed to uplift the room. He didn’t know a lot of the words he used, but they all sounded powerful and inspiring. Then of course, there was the little skit the other kids put on with the manger. He wanted to play every single part—even though that story wasn’t as good as Noah’s Ark or the Tower of Babel or the Easter story, or anything in Veggie Tales.

He left the church feeling a sense of magic, staring up at the stars and wondering if any of them represented special kids born into the world.

He had yet to hear of Alpha Centauri.

***

Meanwhile, in a church across town, Anthony pulled his legs up onto the pew in front of him and hugged his knees. He caught the eye of another kid, who mimicked the pose. Both grinned. 

He went to church with his grandparents about once a month and every single time he attended, he managed to lure all the kids into a game of The Floor is Lava. There wasn’t a raised surface in the church he hadn’t jumped on. They’d even invaded the kitchen, once.

His dad pushed Anthony’s knees back down and hissed “Sit straight” into his ear.

He let his feet dangle. It wasn’t like they quite touched the floor, anyway. He swung them. When candles were passed around, he didn’t get his own but he pestered his grandmother until she let him hold hers. He ran his finger quickly back and forth through the flame.

She snatched it back from him. “That’s enough playing with fire! Good Lord, you’ll hurt yourself.”

By the time the ending hymns were sung, he had fallen asleep against her arm.

SUMMER 2009, 10 YEARS BEFORE ARMAGEDDON

The rest of first grade had been as awkward and fun as anyone’s. They had raised and released monarch butterflies, learned how to count to a hundred, and memorized the days of the week. Anthony had been thrilled to learn about planets. Ash’s reading level had jumped from picture books to chapter books.

Anthony spent most of the summer in his backyard, catching bugs and trying to keep them alive. They tended to melt into nasty goop in the summer heat overnight, so he eventually gave up on that. He tried the magnifying-glass-and-ants thing but found it more fun to inspect the ants than to fry them.

There was a large mimosa tree in his backyard that had rained pods the previous fall, and he’d collected the seeds and buried them throughout the yard. By now, he had found fifteen saplings. He talked to them.

“GROW UP, ALREADY! COME ON, GET BIGGER OR DAD’S GONNA _MOW_ YOU LOSERS!”

He was very lonely and very, very bored.

One day, to his shock, Ash was outside, too. He was gathered with three other, slightly bigger kids on the side of his house.

There was no fence between the yards, so Anthony crossed over to them easily.

“Who are y’all?” he demanded. He tried to sound mean and nonchalant about it, looking over his shoulder for his dad. He was nowhere to be seen.

“We’re Ash’s cousins,” the tallest one said. “I’m Gabby, this is my sister Mickey, and this is our cousin Yuri. Wanna play with super soakers? We have an extra.”

Anthony lit up. At his current level of boredom, a super soaker fight would probably be worth a beating.

Ash held up his hands. “We’re not supposed to talk to him?”

“Why not?” Yuri asked. He was the youngest—probably only a year or two older than him and Ash.

“B-because…” Ash looked over at Anthony for help.

Anthony put his hands on his hips. “Yeah, Ash. Why not?”

“Our parents hate each other!” Ash blurted.

Anthony shrugged. “I’ll tell Dad I was playing with the hose by myself.”

Ash fretted, wringing his hands. “But what if they catch us?”

“They’ve got better things to do,” Anthony said, holding out a hand to receive the extra gun. Gabby handed it over. Anthony admired it. It was bigger than his arm, colored in red and black.

“Compromise,” Mickey said. Anthony wasn’t sure what that meant, but Mickey continued. “Ash doesn’t want to get in trouble, so you can play with us until you run out of water, and then you have to give back the gun and go home.”

Anthony snatched the hose from her and began filling. “Awesome.”

“Compromise,” Ash echoed. “Just until you run out of ammunition.”

Anthony wasn’t sure what ammunition was either, but he figured it meant water.

They stuck to Ash’s yard, which was plenty big enough, with a rarely touched swing set and lots of pine trees for cover. Anthony found himself as skilled at this as he hoped. He was quick to nail each of Ash’s cousins in the face, looking to Ash every time to see if he laughed. He didn’t even break a smile. When Mickey finally caught Anthony running between trees, he groaned dramatically, staggered, and fell on his face in the pine needles.

_That_ earned him laughter. Anthony jumped up and finally took the risk of shooting Ash while his eyes were shut in a giggle fit.

The laughing abruptly stopped and he found his face enduring a stream of water so powerful, he nearly fell over for real.

He swore. “Ash, you’re a good shot!”

Ash was clearly scandalized—either by the swearing or the compliment. Anthony couldn’t tell which. But he laughed again.

Anthony’s gun was getting lighter, and he wished as hard as he could to make it last.

They played until the streetlamps came on and the lightning bugs came out.

He never ran out of water.

FALL 2009, 10 YEARS BEFORE ARMAGEDDON

Second grade came with the option of riding the bus. Of course, the first few days, Ben walked Anthony to the bus stop and glared at Ash and his mother most of the time they were waiting.

When the bus arrived, Anthony’s dad kissed the top of his head. “Now, remember what I told you about Mr. Barkley. Have fun.”

Judging from his dad’s description of Mr. Barkley, he expected him to look like a monster out of Lord of the Rings. He dragged his feet, making sure he was the last person into the classroom.

The man who greeted him was short and thin, with salt-and-pepper hair and a warm smile. “Hello, you must be Anthony. What handsome hair you have!”

He scowled up at the man, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you Mr. Barkley?”

“Yes, I am! Now class, let’s get a wiggle on. Find your cubbies.”

***

Ash wasn’t terribly impressed with Mr. Barkley at first, although he said pretty funny things.

Two weeks into class, he was working on a story.

“Oh, Ash, your handwriting is wonderful. Absolutely tickety-boo.”

He giggled. “Thanks.”

Mr. Barkley peered closer. “You’ve got a way with words, too. I don’t normally see that in someone your age. Jolly good, Mr. Fell. Have you considered writing books?”

Ash froze. Stories and books were completely different. Stories were clumsy things kids made up. Books made _sense_. He looked up at Mr. Barkley. “People write books?”

“Well, yes. Who else would write them? Why do you think there are names on the covers? Those are the authors.”

“The people help, but the words come from God, right?”

“No, my dear, I assure you though, ordinary people write even the big thick books like the ones on my desk.”

“Really? Wow, that must take _weeks_.”

“Try years.”

“Whoa! Are you sure?”

“Yes, dear, people do indeed spend years writing a single book. Not all of them take that long, but it’s not uncommon.”

Ash wanted to make a beeline for the bookshelf and read some books with this new knowledge. Books were so _smart_. How could ordinary people write them?

“Mr. Barkley, have you written a book?”

“Yes, several.”

Whoa. “Did they take years?”

“They did. Now class, let’s go ahead and break for story time a little early…”

Ash _adored_ Mr. Barkley.

***

Almost a month into class, Mr. Barkley finally did something Anthony knew his dad would consider truly weird. Half the class was falling asleep during a history lesson when Mr. Barkley suddenly asked all of them to stand next to their desks. 

“Time to wake up!” he said. “I would like you all to stretch. Reach up toward the ceiling.” He demonstrated.

They did.

“Do a jumping jack.”

They giggled and did so.

“Now, I want you to perform your favorite boogie—dance move—whatever that may be. Mine goes something like this.” He put his hands on his hips and did a little jig.

Several of his classmates imitated it. Several girls spun around with their arms spread.

Anthony stayed very still.

“Very good. Mr. Crowley, is something wrong?”

“My dad said not to behave like you because you’re a [redacted].”

Mr. Barkley’s eyes grew wide. “My dear boy, I’m not the right person to explain to you why that’s not appropriate. Why don’t you go visit Principal Fulton?”

His stomach sank. Every time he’d gone to the principal before had ended with a very angry dad. He’d been trying to do what his dad asked. This wasn’t fair.

“Why?” he whined.

Mr. Barkley was already reaching for the phone. “Dear boy, I’m going to ask him and your father to work some things out for you. It’ll be okay, dear.”

On his way to the door, he caught a glimpse of Ash’s face. He looked confused and concerned.

Anthony slunk out of the classroom, carrying a dinosaur-shaped hall pass, and made the humiliating walk up to the head office.

Principal Fulton ushered him in right away. “I understand your father asked you to call Mr. Barkley a certain word?”

“You mean [redacted]?” he asked. “Dad didn’t tell me to call him that, he just said it and I said it too.”

“I see. Do you know what it means?”

Anthony shrugged. “I assumed it just mean like jerk or asshole or something.”

“It’s a hate word,” Principal Fulton explained. “If you say that word, people are going to think you hate a certain type of people.”

Anthony’s eyes stung. “I don’t hate anyone. I don’t hate Mr. Barkley.”

“I know,” he said. “He knows, too. But we’re going to have to ask your father to explain to you that you can’t use that kind of hate speech here at school.”

Ash wasn’t sure he understood, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

***

Ben came and picked Anthony up from school with growled apologies to the principal and Mr. Barkley and an occasional gruff syllable directed towards his son.

Anthony was in for it. He climbed into his dad’s pickup and buckled himself in with shaking hands.

His dad got them out of the parking lot before he spoke. “Son, why don’t you know better by now than to repeat the things I say at home?”

That wasn’t fair. Dad said all sorts of things. How was he supposed to know which words were bad? “I’m sorry, sir.”

His dad sighed. “I guess this one isn’t really your fault. I never told you not to repeat it.”

Anthony couldn’t help himself. “What does it mean?”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“They said it was a hate word, and saying it would mean I hated people.”

His dad rolled his eyes. “Yes, but only a specific type of people. People worth hating. Mr. Barkley probably seems really nice to you, but that’s just on the surface.”

Disappointment clenched his stomach. “What did he do?”

His father seemed to be actually considering his words, for once. “He doesn’t care about laws. The laws of the state or the laws of God.”

“What did he do?”

“He married a man.”

“Guys can marry other guys?” That was actually kinda cool.

“Were you listening? God hates it. It’s not legal. It’s wrong. If that… teacher of yours is willing to go against God and country, who knows what else he’ll do? People like him are power-hungry, and they’re taking over right now. It might actually become legal at this rate.”

“You’re scared of him?” Was Mr. Barkley dangerous?

His dad grunted. “I’m scared of him influencing you.”

“Influencing?”

“Making you like he is.”

Anthony was confused. “So then all I have to do is… not marry a guy?”

“Or act like pansy-ass queer in general, yeah. Don’t repeat that, either.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just… don’t talk like him. Or move like him. Don’t imitate him—his walk, his gestures, you know. Just don’t let him influence you.”

“I think I get it. Am I still in trouble?”

“Nah, I guess not. I’m worn out tonight. Come on, where do you want to eat?”

***

The word rang in Ash’s head the rest of the day. It had clearly hurt Mr. Barkley so much. What did it mean? He didn’t dare ask at school.

But he could ask his mom. While she was making him dinner, he blurted out the question. “What’s a [redacted]?”

She looked alarmed. “Who said that? Did someone call you that?”

“No. Someone called Mr. Barkley that.”

She sighed. “It’s a very bad word. It means… when two men… are a couple. Like a married couple. There are other words for the same thing that aren’t so bad. Gay. Homosexual. Don’t go repeating any of those words to your teacher, though, okay? It’s rude.”

Ash was stuck on the _married_ part. “Men can marry men?”

“Yeah. It’ll even be legal soon.”

For the second time within a month, his mind was blown. His world was tilting off its axis. His SpaghettiOs were untouched in front of him. “Wow.”

“Hey, now, don’t go proposing to your classmates. You’re too young to think about marriage.”

“Mom, eww!”

***

A few days later, Anthony noticed that Ash had come out of his house by himself. No mom in sight.

“Um, Dad? Ash is all by himself. Can we wait for him?”

“Absolutely not. Have you been talking to him at school?”

“No! Really. It’s just that he’s alone back there.”

His dad put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Stop looking at him. Leave that boy alone. Got it?”

Ash pointedly did not look at either of them while the three stood alone at the bus stop. Anthony, however, couldn’t seem to stop staring. Was Ash really that grown up, that his mom was letting him walk to the bus stop alone? Wasn’t it dangerous? At one point his father grabbed his jaw and jerked it forward. “Get it together, kid,” he hissed.

A couple more—older—kids showed up and Anthony tried to concentrate on watching them. One girl was playing on a phone. He asked if he could watch, and his father seemed fine with that. By the time the bus rolled up, all the kids besides Ash were enrapt in the virtual pinball game, cheering when the girl scored.

Ash climbed up the bus steps first. When Anthony walked down the aisle, he found the seat behind Ash empty, so he sat there.

But he didn’t know what to say to Ash. So when the older girl slid into the seat beside him, he just talked to her.

SPRING 2010, 9.5 YEARS BEFORE ARMAGEDDON

Ash had started writing a book.

It involved the shenanigans that the animals on the ark got up to. The giraffes and elephants kept trying to reach over the edge of the ark and drink the water. The alligators were jealous of how green the parrots were. The rats bullied the cats to the point cats started hating them. The camels couldn’t understand why no one else had humps on their backs. The chimpanzees liked to jump on everyone else while they were sleeping.

The story took a serious turn when an elephant scooped up a unicorn and brought it on board. Now there was still a unicorn somewhere in the world. Unicorns didn’t die of old age, of course. So it would still be out there somewhere.

He’d started bringing his notebook out to recess so he could keep writing. Mr. Barkley gently suggested he play with the other kids but stepped back when he saw that Ash was in the zone. In fact, nothing could have snapped him out of his little dreamworld except the thing that did.

This thing was the same voice he often heard screaming at plants in the neighboring backyard. “I TOLD YOU I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT IT MEANT! SHUT UP BEFORE I KICK YOUR ASS!”

Ash turned around to see Tyler and Peter backing Anthony toward a slide.

“The one who smelt it dealt it!” Tyler jeered.

Anthony drew himself up and stepped forward, forcing the other boys to step back this time. “SAY IT ONE MORE FUCKING TIME!”

Mr. Barkley was rushing over. “Anthony, language,” he scolded calmly. Ash deflated in relief. Mr. Barkley would stop them. “Now, children, please—”

Tyler said the word again.

Anthony tackled him, screaming obscenities, shoving Tyler’s face into the wood chips. Anthony’s fist drew up and he punched the kid in the nose and eye sockets. Ash had to look away until the obscenities lapsed into cries of “PUT ME DOWN, YOU—YOU—_BAD TEACHER!_”

Ash warred with himself. He didn’t know whether to be more horrified with Anthony’s violence or impressed with how he refused to repeat the word.

He settled on horrified with the violence.

***

A month or so later, Anthony’s dad’s work schedule changed and he couldn’t pick Anthony up at the bus stop every day. He gave Anthony a very stern lecture about responsibility and coming straight home.

Anthony didn’t listen. He was just thrilled about the freedom.

Still, he tried to walk home at least ten sidewalk-squares behind Ash. One day, after a few weeks, he watched Ash walk right past his own house. He kept going, all the way down the street, and turned left.

Weird.

A few days later, it happened again, and Anthony followed. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it. Ash spotted him immediately.

“Why are you following me?”

“I dunno. Where are you going?”

“None of your business! Go home! Won’t your dad worry?”

“Nah, he’s still at work.”

Ash’s fists crunched up in frustration. “I said, don’t follow me!”

He turned to stomp on down the street.

Anthony shrugged and kept walking. Not a full minute later, Ash rounded on him again. “Leave me alone! I’m not going anywhere exciting, okay?”

“Well, I’m coming too.”

“No! You’re scary!”

Anthony was startled. “I’m scary?”

“Yeah, my mom says you’re a bad influence, and you’ll hurt me like your dad hurt her, and—”

Anthony groaned. “Come on, don’t say bad things about my dad.”

Ash’s fists shook. “What are you going to do? Lick my butt?”

Anthony struggled to process that for a moment. “Hold up. _Kick_. It’s _kick_ butt.” He gagged. “I can’t believe you just said that. I lick walls, not butts.”

“So… you’re not gonna beat me up?”

“No! Why would I beat you up?”

“You beat Tyler up! Your friend!”

Oh. “Yeah, but he pissed me off! I don’t have a problem with you.”

Ash’s fists stopped shaking. “Really?”

“Really. My dad’s the one with the problem. It’s not like I hate you or anything. Do you hate me?”

“Well, no, you’re just… kinda scary.”

“I promise I’m not scary. Where are we going?” He stepped forward, walking next to Ash now.

Ash shifted his backpack. “Did you know there’s a break in the fence to the nature preserve down by the old blue house?”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, I found it this summer.”

“Wait, you’re allowed out of the yard?”

“Yeah, Mom doesn’t care.”

“That’s so cool! So what’s in the nature preserve?”

“I dunno. I haven’t explored the whole thing. I just like the river.”

“River? Oh my god, are there ducks?”

“Sometimes.”

They talked about wildlife and classmates the rest of the ten-minute walk to the break in the fence. The river was a two-minute walk from there.

Anthony was disappointed. “You call this a river? It’s more like a creek or a stream.”

“It’s part of the Nightingale River!” Ash said. He was kicking his shoes off.

“Are you going in?” Anthony asked, shocked.

Ash peeled his socks off. “Yeah, it’s kinda cold, but the sandbar is nice. It’s the best place to read. Most light.”

“Ugh, you’re hanging out with _me_ and you still want to _read_?”

Ash looked at him like it was a stupid question. Well, okay, then. Apparently Ash loved his books.

Anthony kicked off his shoes and socks too and followed him into the water. He hissed at the cold brown water. It came up to their knees. The sand squished under his feet.

“You think there are snakes?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen any yet, but probably. I’ve seen tadpoles.”

“So cool! I never knew you were this cool! Wait, I take it back—you sit there and read when you could be exploring!”

Ash shrugged and pulled something out of his bulging backpack. A towel—an Ironman towel, to be exact. He spread it on the sandbar and delicately sat cross-legged, leaving plenty of room for Anthony on the towel next to him.

Anthony couldn’t complain about that. He sat down and stretched his legs out onto the sand while Ash pulled out a Diary of a Wimpy Kid book.

“That’s a big book,” he said.

“Thanks,” Ash said like it was a compliment.

He collapsed back, even though he knew his hair would be full of sand. “I might explore, since you’re too lame to.”

“Go ahead.”

“Ngk.” He’d hoped for a reaction. Thwarted.

“Read to me,” he said.

“I’ll have to start over,” Ash whined.

“Fine,” Anthony said. He stood to explore the sandbar, at least. There were little black-and-purple shells, gray pebbles, and some kind of pond scum on the side the water flowed toward.

The sand shifted weirdly under his feet.

Ash shifted too, but turned a page in his book.

“Hey, Ash, did you feel that?”

“What?”

“The sandbar did something weird. I don’t like it. Let’s go.”

Ash sprang to his feet. “It does feel—”

The middle of the sandbar was sinking, turning brown with moisture. 

Anthony grabbed Ash’s backpack—he’d left his own by the shore—and they ran, slipping in the rushing sand, until they got all the way back up into the trees.

When they looked back, to their horror, the towel and the sandbar were gone, and water was rushing into the gaping hole where they had been.

***

Ash was even more horrified than he’d been about the fight. He hadn’t thought that was possible. They could have died. Drowned in sand. _Sinking sand._ Like in the movies!

“Did you know that could happen?” Ash asked.

“No,” Anthony panted.

Ash swallowed. “How’d you know to warn me?”

“It just felt weird.”

Ash slapped his forehead. “My backpack! _Rats._ My library books were in there, Mom’s going to have to pay for them and she’ll—”

The backpack appeared in front of him, held aloft by Anthony’s hand. “I got it. You got the book you were reading?”

Relief flooded him. He held up the green hardcover and brushed some sandy grit off it. He inspected the edges of the pages. “Yeah, it’s okay. This one’s mine, anyway. Um. Thank you.” He took the proffered backpack and put the book inside.

Anthony looked down at his black t-shirt and jean shorts. “Ugh, I got water all over my clothes. Think they'll dry by the time we get home?”

Ash sat on a rock to pull on his socks and try to get control over his rapid heartbeat. “No, we’ll have to say we were playing in the sprinklers or something. Not together. Why do I get wet every single time I play with you?”

“I dunno,” Anthony said, distractedly wringing out his shorts.

Ash looked up at him. Something weird was happening. _Anthony Crowley_ had just saved his life. And his _backpack_. He wanted to cry. He wanted to tell his mom.

He never could. Even if Anthony hadn’t been with him, she might not let him out of the yard anymore. Anthony’s talk of exploring made him curious to try it.

He looked back at Anthony. The boy was so pretty, with those red curls springing everywhere.

“What?” Anthony asked.

“I dunno,” Ash said. “That was scary.” 

“Yeah,” Anthony said. “Come on, let’s walk back to our street together, and then I’ll let you go the rest of the way first.”

Something weird was happening. He wanted to be closer to Anthony. He wanted to be his best friend.

What was the nice version of the word again, anyway? For when men could marry other men?


End file.
